Soldiers of Fortune | Page 4

as
usual, and as polite and attentive as he had been to the Frenchwoman,
but he was not greatly interested, and his laugh was modulated and not
spontaneous. She had wondered that night, and frequently since then, if,
in the event of his asking her to marry him, which was possible, and of
her accepting him, which was also possible, whether she would find
him, in the closer knowledge of married life, as keen and lighthearted
with her as he had been with the French dancer. If he would but treat
her more like a comrade and equal, and less like a prime minister
conferring with his queen! She wanted something more intimate than
the deference that he showed her, and she did not like his taking it as an
accepted fact that she was as worldly-wise as himself, even though it
were true.
She was a woman and wanted to be loved, in spite of the fact that she
had been loved by many men--at least it was so supposed--and had
rejected them.
Each had offered her position, or had wanted her because she was fitted
to match his own great state, or because he was ambitious, or because
she was rich. The man who could love her as she once believed men
could love, and who could give her something else besides approval of

her beauty and her mind, had not disclosed himself. She had begun to
think that he never would, that he did not exist, that he was an
imagination of the playhouse and the novel. The men whom she knew
were careful to show her that they appreciated how distinguished was
her position, and how inaccessible she was to them. They seemed to
think that by so humbling themselves, and by emphasizing her position
they pleased her best, when it was what she wanted them to forget.
Each of them would draw away backward, bowing and protesting that
he was unworthy to raise his eyes to such a prize, but that if she would
only stoop to him, how happy his life would be. Sometimes they meant
it sincerely; sometimes they were gentlemanly adventurers of title,
from whom it was a business proposition, and in either case she turned
restlessly away and asked herself how long it would be before the man
would come who would pick her up on his saddle and gallop off with
her, with his arm around her waist and his horse's hoofs clattering
beneath them, and echoing the tumult in their hearts.
She had known too many great people in the world to feel impressed
with her own position at home in America; but she sometimes
compared herself to the Queen in ``In a Balcony,'' and repeated to
herself, with mock seriousness:--
``And you the marble statue all the time They praise and point at as
preferred to life, Yet leave for the first breathing woman's cheek, First
dancer's, gypsy's or street balladine's!''
And if it were true, she asked herself, that the man she had imagined
was only an ideal and an illusion, was not King the best of the others,
the unideal and ever-present others? Every one else seemed to think so.
The society they knew put them constantly together and approved. Her
people approved. Her own mind approved, and as her heart was not
apparently ever to be considered, who could say that it did not approve
as well? He was certainly a very charming fellow, a manly, clever
companion, and one who bore about him the evidences of distinction
and thorough breeding. As far as family went, the Kings were as old as
a young country could expect, and Reggie King was, moreover, in spite
of his wealth, a man of action and ability. His yacht journeyed from

continent to continent, and not merely up the Sound to Newport, and he
was as well known and welcome to the consuls along the coasts of
Africa and South America as he was at Cowes or Nice. His books of
voyages were recognized by geographical societies and other serious
bodies, who had given him permission to put long disarrangements of
the alphabet after his name. She liked him because she had grown to be
at home with him, because it was good to know that there was some
one who would not misunderstand her, and who, should she so indulge
herself, would not take advantage of any appeal she might make to his
sympathy, who would always be sure to do the tactful thing and the
courteous thing, and who, while he might never do a great thing, could
not do an unkind one.
Miss Langham had entered the Porters' drawing-room after the greater
number of the guests had arrived, and she turned from her hostess to
listen to an